


Kindred

by Zelos



Series: Humans Underneath [2]
Category: Captain America (2011), Incredible Hulk (2008), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bonding over trauma, Friendship, Gen, Gen Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Teambuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you understand, do you know what it's <i>like</i>, to be afraid of every needle, every doctor – not because of what they can do <i>to</i> you, but what they can do <i>with</i> you?”</p><p>Bruce and Steve reach an understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindred

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be fluffy and short; it's now neither. *sigh*
> 
> Prior reading of [The Scientific Method](http://archiveofourown.org/works/433634) and/or [All My Heroes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/425702) not necessary, but they do provide some background.

“Doctor Banner?”

Bruce looked up, peered between two corners of the room. For all the bizarre things that he had gotten used to in his life, it was still disconcerting to respond to a disembodied voice. “Yes, JARVIS?”

“I apologize for the interruption, Doctor, but Captain Rogers is in the penthouse kitchen and - “ the AI paused, almost delicately, “could possibly use some attention.”

Bruce shoved his notebook aside, pushed his glasses up his nose. “Attention?” Even as he said this, he was stripping off his lab coat. “Has his injuries worsened?”

“No, sir. Captain Rogers' vitals are steady and he appears to be recovering well from earlier events. Said events seemed to have...unsettled him, however.”

Bruce glanced at the clock; it read 03:51. JARVIS continued, “All other occupants of the tower are asleep. And if you would forgive me for saying so, sir, I believe that you may be the most...suitable for this task.”

The interpretations one could read into that would fill entire tomes. Bruce sighed and decide not to contemplate any. “Could you light my way? I don't trust my mental navigation at this hour.”

“Certainly, sir.”

 

He stopped at the entrance to the pitch-black kitchen. It was silent as a grave, with not even a glow from a microwave clock or a beep of a timer. JARVIS had not lit the last portion of his approach, likely not wanting to announce Bruce's presence, which was perfectly legitimate except Bruce could not see in the dark.

He wondered if Steve chose this particular kitchen because it was this dark, or JARVIS darkened it all in sympathy. He also wondered how he was going to play this off – certainly no one wandered into a completely dark kitchen and found traumatized captains by accident.

Steve solved that problem for him: “You can come in, Doctor,” low and hoarse. The lights snapped on, soft and dim, and Bruce threaded his way over. He didn't ask how Steve knew, but Steve answered anyway: a tap on the side of his head, a small, wry smile. “You all have distinctive gaits. Even Agent Romanov.”

He was hunched over the bar, hands clasped as if around an imaginary glass. Bruce circled around him to the bar, picked two glasses off the well-stocked shelf, and poured whiskey in both. He slid a glass across the counter; Steve hesitated, then closed his hands around the glass - tight enough to comfort, not enough to break. His red-rimmed eyes stared at the liquid inside.

Bruce sat down beside him, sipping slowly at his drink. He didn't know what to say. Oh, he recognized the signs, the set in the shoulders, the tautness to the mouth. But usually no one had to _say_ anything.

They _all_ had nightmares, skeletons in their closets, monsters in the dark that woke them – Earth's mightiest heroes – with strangled whimpers that wouldn't quite turn into a scream. Clint would prowl the air vents for _weeks_ and Natasha would drink herself to stupor (just), and Tony would drink himself to death _whilst_ building something that'd inevitably turn the world on its ear. They all knew the script – but these monsters were _private_ , and everyone understood that, turned the other cheek when someone lost it and passed the whiskey when appropriate or just never mentioned it again. They moved on, all of them.

Talking was new, wasn't in the script.

“How're the burns?” he asked instead, spotting the absence of the gauze Natasha had wrapped for him. There had been another battle, one that Tony hadn't attended (due to his nursing the broken bones from the last round). The other guy had launched Steve, at Steve's request, 15 stories up into a burning building choked with nerve gas to rescue the survivors. He'd came out with some pretty good burns afterward, both of the chemical and fire varieties, but everyone'd come out _alive_ and that had been a pretty good trade.

It was idle, pointless conversation – they'd all read the dossiers, and everyone knew about Captain America's healing. But given that Steve had commented, around his nausea and gasping breaths, that the other guy made an awfully good catapult/trampoline, it stung more than it should when Steve _tensed_ and twitched his arm away with a muttered “Fine”.

Bruce swallowed hard, pushing down the bubble of anger that'd welled up at the response. Steve saw the look on his face, perhaps, and hastily added “872% toxin resistance” as a peace offering, but Bruce'd seen that all-too-familiar shuttered look in his eyes as the blond man had briefly turned away.

It's not that he didn't expect it. Tony was the only one – only _human_ , rather; Thor didn't seem too worried either way - in the tower who didn't seem to worry or fear the other guy. Natasha wore her wariness openly, and he couldn't blame her after the Helicarrier. Steve and Clint watched him not so much with _open_ fear, but a certain levelness, a certain tension, like they have to brace themselves for impact before they touched. Which – fine, _fine_ , he could understand _that_ , but he couldn't understand why the man would flinch away from the human and fearlessly launch off the rage monster with absolute clarity in his eyes.

“You know,” and he couldn't help the undercurrent of bitterness in his voice; maybe he understood why Tony wanted this, why JARVIS thought he'd be appropriate, but it wasn't fair to _him_ , “some days it seems like you trust the other guy more than you do me.”

And Steve _flinched_ , swallowed and didn't meet his eyes; Bruce felt that little black knot in his stomach twist hard and took a deep breath, turned to leave -

Strong fingers caught his sleeve, dog tags clinking at the movement. “No, wait. Stay.” Steve pulled him back into his seat, turning his wrist over, and Bruce squinted in the dim light; what had to have been at least a second degree burn 5 hours prior had all but vanished, the skin only a little pink.

“I'm sorry,” and it startled him to realize Steve was speaking, mostly into his untouched whiskey, “It's just...ever since Doctor Erskine...I'm the only one left, the last of his work. The ultimate human weapon. The doctor's notes were incomplete, almost worthless without the man. And at first it was just...tests. Ability tests. How fast I could run, how much I could lift.”

 _Then much more than just that._ Bruce settled into his seat warily; he remembered Tony's face when Tony'd slammed down the discharge papers on Bruce's desk, as enraged as anything from the Hulk.

(“They _experimented_ on him, Bruce,” Tony'd snarled, low and soft, when Bruce had raised his eyebrows at Tony's methods of persuading the suits to sign the papers (particularly the “rip out your spinal cord and strangle you with it” part). “Experimented on him, like he was a _rat_ – mustard gas and electrocution and how long it'd take for him to drown.” He'd drawn himself up, something cold and dark glittering in his eyes. “They deserved everything they got.”

Bruce had not been able to find it in himself to disagree.)

Steve went on, “I knew...I knew they wanted to reverse-engineer the Serum from me, somehow. We never had a chance, back then; there'd been no _time_ , we had a war to win. And when I woke up...well, I wasn't awake for most of it, but there had been more tests, the usual battery of them, making sure I was alive and not a vegetable...

“I know they want to, though, eventually. They've never given up on the idea. _You're_...like this, because _you_ tried to recreate it. They didn't even have me back, back then. Now they do.” He swung around to look at Bruce. There was open wariness now in his eyes, as obvious as anything from Natasha, but he was saying all this, and it was a start. “Doctor Erskine warned me about power, and how to use it, and I...don't want to show myself to _anyone_ , because I need to guard it, guard the Serum, from the people who'd just want it for power's sake.”

Bruce opened his mouth, wanted to say things about modern times and ethics panels, and found that he couldn't. Ross had certainly considered _him_ property of the United States Army, never mind the _national mascot_ dressed in red, white and blue. And he'd recognized the challenge in Steve's words, too, _prove it to me that_ you _won't_.

He could understand now, why Steve held himself sideways and a little off, always covered (even more so than what the standards of 1940s demanded) and a little uncomfortable, despite having a body like Adonis. Why the only time he ever seemed settled in his own skin was on the battlefield, where he actually could _be_ himself without reservation.

He could understand it, and still bristle. Bruce didn't like being _tested_.

“Do you understand,” at his silence, Steve balled his hands into fists, “do you know what it's _like,_ ” and maybe it's worth something that Steve's _saying_ this now, instead of just running away and flinching and watching him with guarded eyes, “to be afraid of every needle, every doctor – not because of what they can do _to_ you, but what they can do _with_ you?”

“I do,” and Steve looked up at him sharply, and Bruce couldn't believe Steve hadn't figured it out himself. He'd laugh, but he couldn't, not at this.

Now it was _his_ turn to talk, voice subdued and brittle, “I...wouldn't say I _improved_ on the late Doctor Erskine's formula, not by a long shot – but...certain things that the other guy does has...exceeded _your_ boundaries, even. You get hurt, heal up. The other guy...doesn't get hurt, not really. He jumps further, throws harder, and wouldn't _they_ like to know how the formula can be _improved?_ Yeah, he's big and green and all temperamental rage, but y'know, he's _property of the United States Army_ all the same.” Bruce let his voice add in the mocking air quotes, bitter and hard.

Steve was staring at him, like he'd never seen him before. “I thought...they wanted to put you down.”

“Second best option. If they couldn't have him, no one can.” Bruce shrugged, downed his whiskey, felt it burn in his throat. “And, sorry Captain, but you're the _national icon_ of America. Even when they do want to poke you full of holes they'd have to return you in one piece after, because if they don't, America would go into an outrage like never before seen. But the other guy? He's a monster, a menace, an oversized _frog_ that should've long been transferred to the dissection table.”

He remembered that day at the hospital, listening to the ragged screams through the closed double doors with Tony, and for a second it wasn't _Steve_ on the table but _him,_ bleary eyes watching knives descend and skin splitting at its touch. It hurt, hurt so _badly_ , everything _hurt_ and people were running about yelling for drugs that didn't work, _nothing_ worked and all he could do was scream...

A hand laid on his shoulder and he started from the reverie, his eyes meeting Steve's.

Bruce shrugged the hand off. “Do I understand? Yeah. So does Tony, actually – because it's the same, just with technology instead of blood samples. People...always, _always_ try for more, even if they're not ready for it.”

“Then why do _you_ keep digging?” And that was soft, and brittle, and faintly accusing; Bruce whirled on him, feeling the black rage again. “I know you are, when you're not breaking the laws of physics with Tony.”

“Why shouldn't I?” he retorted, every word venomous. Damn it all, this comfort thing wasn't going so well. “Why _wouldn't_ I? You – you don't _understand_ , Rogers – you're the _successful_ experiment.”

He exhaled, hard, his lip curling a little in anger, and bitter, bitter envy. “I've more or less...made peace with the idea that I'm...stuck with the other guy. It...he's...saved my life. A lot of lives, even. I _get_ it. But...” he choked out a sound, half sob, half growl. “I _had_ a life, once. A life where I wasn't a _menace_ , where I could walk amongst others. I could stay where _I_ want, without government factions... _tracking_ my every move. I had...someone waiting for me, someone whom I can _touch_ without worrying my heart rate would go too high. I could...wake up without finding _bodies_. _I had all that_ – and the other guy took them all away. He's done...good things, I'll grant you that. But I didn't – _want_ this. I. Don't. _Want him_.”

He glared at Steve, and he wasn't sure if the man saw brown eyes or green. “I'm not going to _use you_ without your permission,” Steve's gaze flickered as he realized that Bruce _knew_ , “but if my research _fixes_ this, fixes _me_...would you deny me that, _Captain?_ ”

Steve winced, and there was genuine sympathy in his face, but also still a trace of that wariness, that reserve. “And if it fails? I don't doubt your genius, doctor, but the other guy came about because science doesn't always do what it's supposed to.”

Tony would've punched his lights out for that (or tried to anyway). Not that Bruce didn't feel the urge, but underneath the roiling rage, he could _respect_ that caution. Steve was the leader, the one facing the hard truths that no one else dared confront. It wasn't that he lacked tact, it was that as the CO, sometimes he couldn't afford that luxury.

“JARVIS,” he called out to the AI, not directly answering. “Please pull up file R861-CP-H, master override three-bravo-one-four-alpha-seven-echo.”

JARVIS audibly...hesitated, but did as told. “Very good sir.” The air in front of them lit up with a screen, which Bruce passed over in midair.

“I'm not saying _all_ of them would work if something were to go...wrong,” Bruce said quietly, wearily, the fury worn down to a simmer. Steve's eyes drifted over the CONTINGENCY PLANS: HULK on the cover page, and the myriad of signatures underneath, most prominently Bruce's own. “But I...prepared. SHIELD has a copy on their servers, Coulson has a hard copy, and JARVIS has this.”

Steve scrolled through, face white – or maybe that was just the reflection of the screen. A couple of screens in, he pinched the display shut with an ease that belied his years. He slowly turned to face Bruce, the last of the suspicion melting away.

“I'm sorry,” he finally said, and it was honest, tentative, and more than a little ashamed. “I...misjudged a lot of you, when I woke up.”

He did. Cruelly misjudged them – misjudged Tony and Bruce, at least, and probably the rest too. Bruce could understand, maybe – _later_. 70 years of sleep was not kind to a man, to be fair. But that kind of distrust...it _hurt_. Even if he could understand why.

It could be okay, later. It would be okay – because Bruce could appreciate the difficulty of Steve's position. But not now. Not _now_.

“I didn't,” Bruce replied softly; Steve froze, not sure if it was a reassurance or a slap. Bruce wasn't entirely sure, himself.

But if he couldn't be understanding – not yet, anyway – he could at least be _honest_. “None of us were...at our best, back then. Even so...” He sighed, the sound too loud in the silence; the anger had burned out and left him hollow, weary to the bone. “The serum doesn't matter. It's not the serum that makes the hero, Captain. It's the person who makes it work.”

Steve'd gone through all those ability tests like a good soldier, but never consented to experiments, to _samples_. To have so doggedly defended that secret... Steve's doubt had cut him to the bone, but even so, it was true: “If Doctor Erskine could only have one successful patient to defend his secret, I'm glad it was you.”

There was a very, very long silence as Steve stared at him, searching his eyes. Bruce wasn't sure what he was looking for, but Steve settled back into his seat after the moment passed, dog tags clinking again.

“Then,” Steve's turned his wrist towards him again, the pink now all but gone. His words were almost inaudible, tentative, and tremulously honest. “If there's one person I could ever trust holding that scalpel, I'd rather that be you, doctor.”

Maybe okay didn't have to wait until later, after all.


End file.
